Chapter XX: By the Path of Suffering

"AND we know that all things work together for good to them that love God."

An easy text to adopt when the "all things" suit our inclinations and are in accord with what we think should be.

Adam Livesey learned to make the text his own, and humbly acknowledged that even the little provocations which, added together, took most of the comfort out of his domestic life, drove him to seek to know more of that "love of God which passeth knowledge." He was wonderfully patient with Margaret, and, if she would have told the truth, she must have owned that she found it as hard to persevere in her course of conduct as Adam did in his.

Nay, harder, for he was upheld by a strength which she had not. She had resolved to break Adam of his new-fangled notions, and whilst conscience reproached her for harassing one who was so patient, and her naturally warm heart pleaded for the husband who was, after all, dearer than the whole world beside, Margaret did not like to give in when she had determined on any course.

Sometimes she chose to taunt Adam about his friend the manager.

"A deal of good his coming has done us," she said. "Not one shilling a week has your fine Mr. Drummond put on to your wages since he came. And he never will. Don't tell me that he can't. I know better. Where there's a will there's a way. And you that have worked all your life at Rutherford's. You haven't had a rise for years. It's a shame. That's what it is."

"I've had the best rise I ever had," replied Adam. "It's through Mr. Drummond I got the good news that Jesus loved me and gave Himself for me. That has made me a rich man—me that was o' no account;" And the man's face was lighted with a holy joy as he spoke of his blessed heritage.

"I don't make much account of riches that you can neither see nor spend, Adam. I tell you my riches are a deal the best, for they bring twelve pound ten every six months, and help to clothe and feed the children and make home comfortable. If you could only put your new fortune into the shape of half a crown a week more wage, I should like it a deal better. And so would you, I'll be bound."

"No, dear lass, no," returned Adam fervently. "I would not change the unsearchable riches of Christ for all the money in the world. I should ha' said same as you once, but 'whereas I was blind, now I see.' I was a poor lost sinner, now saved through faith in the 'grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.' I'm hoping and praying every day that you'll say the same before long. Good-bye, dear lass."

Adam looked at Margaret with a tender, yearning gaze, but she did not return it or answer his good-bye, and he went off to his work, whilst Margaret continued her grumble to a neighbour, who came in at the moment.

"I was just talking to our Adam about his wages," she said. "As a regular thing, he only gets a pound a week. When he has piece work, it mends things a good bit, only the poor fellow has to slave like anybody on the treadmill when Rutherford's is busy. But he never grumbles, not he. You might think half Millborough belonged to him, to hear him talk."

"You're better off, by a deal, than most of us, Mrs. Livesey. Your husband is just as steady as old Time, and never gives you an ill word. Beside, you've your own little fortin, as one may call it, for a fortin it is, added to regular wages," and the speaker gave a sigh. She had a husband who earned more than Adam's wages and Margaret's fortune put together, but owing to his drinking habits, she was far worse off with only two children, while the Liveseys had six living.

Margaret liked any allusion to her "fortune." It gratified that feeling of pride which had been growing ever since her mother's death. She answered, with a satisfied smile, that it was a good job there had been a bit o' money laid by on her side. She often wondered how she had kept a house over their heads, when there was nothing but what Adam worked for. He was always a real good husband.

"I expect he's better still now he's turned religious."

"He was good enough for me before. If he'd been like some men, I might have been glad enough to see an alteration," returned Margaret, rather sharply.

"You may say that," replied her neighbour, without resenting the implied allusion to her own partner. "We're none of us so good, though, but what we might be better. I often feel as if I wanted something different, some comfort that I can't get out of my share of this world."

Margaret was not prepared to administer such, and the neighbour took her leave with the thought in her mind that Mrs. Livesey hardly knew when she was well off, specially in the matter of a husband.

It was true that Adam never grumbled. He worked with his might, was satisfied with fair wages, and he had mastered that very difficult lesson which St. Paul spoke of, and could say, "I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."

He had his desires and longings, but not after the good things of this world. He wanted to grow in likeness to Jesus, to be fruitful in every good work, to increase in the knowledge of God.

He could not have put his longings into these very words unless he had just read them, but he did feel like a very child, ready to be taught and led, and humbly conscious of his ignorance and weakness. He clung to what he had already gained, and thanked God for it with a rejoicing heart. And only God knew how he prayed that the partner of his life, the mother of his children, might yet share his fortune, and that they might walk to the house of God in company.

All the while Margaret, with far less to try her than of old, was making troubles both for Adam and herself. She was soon to experience a very real one.

That very morning, one of the workmen at Rutherford's placed some iron beams near a sliding gate. They were not firmly fixed, but were only intended to remain for a few minutes, and then to be gradually removed. The man was, however, called away for something else, and in the meanwhile, Mr. Drummond and another workman approached the spot, followed by Adam Livesey, who was a couple of paces behind the manager.

The workman advanced to open the gate without noticing the insecure position of the beams, the first of which was displaced by the movement, and the rest came crashing down. Adam's eye was turned in that direction, and he saw the danger, and uttered a warning cry, whilst darting forward to save Mr. Drummond, who was perfectly unconscious of the possibility of risk.

No one could tell just how it was done; only the manager was thrust aside, the first workman, whom Adam vainly strove to reach or warn, lay crushed and bleeding on the ground, and Adam's strong right arm, broken in two places, hung helpless by his side.

Great drops of moisture sprang to the poor striker's brow, and, sick and faint, he sank down beside the wall of the building and tried to wipe his pallid face with his rough hand. Even in that moment of suffering, his first thoughts were for those at home, his first words told of anxiety for them.

"Poor Margaret! How will she bear it? Oh, sir!" To Mr. Drummond, who was bending over him in deep distress. "I shall never lift the hammer again."

"Adam, my dear fellow, words cannot tell how grieved I am that you should be bearing this for me. You saved my life at the cost of this calamity to yourself."

"Did I? Did I really?" said the suffering man, as a ray of light crossed his pallid face. "Then it's not all trouble. There's a bit of comfort out of it. I doubt poor Jim has got the worst. I tried."

"You did, my friend, all that courage and presence of mind could do. But poor Sam is past all earthly suffering. One of the beams struck him on the temple, and must have killed him instantly."

Whilst these brief words passed, means were being used for the removal of all that remained of poor Sam. Then Adam was conveyed to the hospital accompanied by Mr. Drummond, who intended first to ascertain the extent of his poor friend's injuries, and then to break the news to Mrs. Livesey.

There are always loungers and hangers-on in the neighbourhood of a great hive of industry like Rutherford's, and the tidings flew rapidly from mouth to mouth, and lost nothing in the transit. It reached the ears of little Tom Livesey, who was just leaving morning school. The lad rushed wildly homeward, and bursting into the kitchen, in the midst of tears and sobs, told that "there'd been a lot o' men killed at Rutherford's, and they said father was one of 'em."

Poor Tom was not to blame for this false report. He told the tale as it had been told to him, and in the anguish of his childish heart rushed homeward and wailed out his terrible tidings.

Margaret Livesey will never forget that time or the half-hour that followed it. She was almost like a woman turned to stone, and at first incapable of speech or action, or anything but remorse. She endured a lifetime of misery during the brief interval which passed before she knew the truth.

All poor Adam's patience and long-suffering, his unselfishness, his loving ways with his little ones, his steady industry, his perfect confidence in and true affection for herself, his silence under provocation, or the soft answers which always seemed most natural to him, where many a man under similar circumstances would have replied with an oath and a blow—all these things came before her mind's eye on one side.

And on the other what did she see?

Ah, she could hardly bear to look. She got a view of herself, such as all her previous experiences had never given her. All her own sharp, impatient ways and words, her want of sympathy with her husband's joy, her unwillingness to listen when he would fain have poured out his very heart-longings for her to understand, if such might be. Her worritting ways, her finding fault with the course which Adam had chosen, and at which many another wife would have rejoiced with a full heart.

These things Margaret saw, and she clasped her hands in utter misery, as she thought of his "good-bye" that very morning, when he lingered for a word or look from her, and she gave him neither. Oh, if she could have him back! If he had only been hurt, not killed, how she would have worked for him in turn, and never grumbled, be the toil ever so hard, the hours ever so long.

What was now the value of the fortune of which she had been so proud? How gladly would she have given up every penny, just for the chance of saying, "Forgive me, Adam. I'm sorry for my contradictious ways and cross words. Say you forgive me, and put your kind arm round my neck once more, whilst we have just one farewell kiss."

These thoughts did not take long to pass through Mrs. Livesey's mind, and during the time she was moving about in a mechanical way and preparing to go, she scarce knew whither, in search of what was left of the husband who had gone from her in health and strength so short a time before.

As she approached the outer door, she heard a step drawing near it, and, looking up, she saw old Richard Evans, with a face full of mingled sorrow and sympathy, coming towards her.